


Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

by lilyfanciesprongs



Series: The Wildcat & The Wolf [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, Grimmauld Place, Order Member Draco Malfoy, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, warfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-07 22:41:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11068599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyfanciesprongs/pseuds/lilyfanciesprongs
Summary: "In battle, she is a wildcat and he is a wolf. Her features have been hardened slightly by loss and adversity, but there are parts of her that are the same as ever; most notably, her eyes. No amount of cynicism, death or bloodshed could change Hermione Granger's eyes." Warfic-AU. One-shot. Canon compliant until the end of HBP. Rated mature for mentions of violence.





	Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Just a one-shot I wrote on a whim. A little darker than my usual stuff, but I'm very happy with how it turned out. Hope you enjoy it. This is a Warfic - AU where Voldemort is not defeated in 1998. Canon compliant until the end of Half-Blood Prince. I'm contemplating writing a sequel to this as well.
> 
> Songs:  
> My Skin – Natalie Merchant (for Hermione)  
> 9 Crimes – Damien Rice (for Draco)
> 
> Disclaimer: Any recognizable names, characters and places belong to JK Rowling.

 

(February 1st, 2003 – Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix - 12 Grimmauld Place, London)

She finds him in the kitchen a few minutes after three in the morning, smoking a cigarette with his good arm and staring blankly at the roaring fireplace. An overflowing ashtray sits on the table to his right, and the smell of nicotine engulfs any other possible smell, making her nostrils tingle as she lingers in the doorway.

The first time she’d seen him smoke was six years prior; two and a half months after he’d arrived in Grimmauld Place, when he’d first felt comfortable enough to ask that Andromeda bring him back cigarettes when the witchleft to get supplies, explaining that they calmed his nerves. As she watches right side of his head, his platinum locks cut short; she remembers the circumstances in which he arrived at the House.

* * *

(July 6th, 1997)

McGonagall is the one who brings him in, amid whispers from the younger members of Dumbledore’s Army and even a few protests. To say that he’s been a mess would be sugar-coating it; his skin is a patchwork of bruises and blood in vivid Technicolor, and he’s unconscious when they bring him into the house, bloodied, battered and with more broken bones than they can count.

Ron and Harry and the twins object, saying that it’s a trap, but McGonagall silences them and assures the others that he was brought to her by a reliable source that works as a spy for the Order, that he’s been tortured for four days as a result of his failure to kill Dumbledore, and that he had consented to being brought to them, even asked, as Voldemort had ordered his mother be killed just before he was taken away to the dungeons of Malfoy Manor from where he’d been rescued.

The traumatized sight of him when he’s carried into the house is such that something breaks inside her, and she is unable to speak during the entire time the older members of the Order decide to let him stay. As Kingsley gently levitates his unconscious form into the unused dining room where they can work, Andromeda and Tonks make to follow him and assist in healing the boy. And she gets to her feet, following them. When Tonks turns and gives her a questioning look, she simply blinks.

“I want to help,” she says.

The damage done to him is appalling and frankly, it threatens to overwhelm her at first. For the first few hours, all that’s heard is commands from Kingsley and Andromeda and muttered healing spells and the sound of Pain Potion and healing potions being poured down his throat. Then, the others are momentarily distracted with discussing the proper amount of Blood-Replenishing Potion to give him, and he opens his eyes for only a moment when she’s pouring drops of dittany on his left forearm; the Death Eaters had skinned it to cut out his Dark Mark.

“Granger?”

His voice is hoarse and brittle, barely a whisper, and she might never have caught it if she hadn’t been so close. “Malfoy,” she says, pausing in her motions.

“Am I dead?” he asks, his eyes fluttering, and it almost breaks her heart.

“No,” she whispers. “You’re with the Order. You’re safe, alright?”

His sigh of relief and the lone tear that leaks out of the corner of his left eye, leaving a gleaming trail of salt in the blood on his temple, are the only signs she gets that he even heard her before he falls unconscious once more.

* * *

(July 9th, 1997)

“Is he going to live?” McGonagall asks, on the third day after bringing him in, when Hermione and the others have healed him to the best of their ability. Tonks is in the kitchen brewing more potions, but Hermione and Andromeda have yet to leave his side. Kingsley is with Mad-Eye nearby in the drawing room, talking to a group of defected Slytherins who arrived in McGonagall’s office at Hogwarts barely an hour prior, running for their lives and begging to be accepted into the Order; no doubt as a result of Draco’s unceremonious disappearance: Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Millicent Bulstrode and the Greengrass sisters, Daphne, who is the same age as Hermione, and Astoria, who is in Ginny’s year at Hogwarts.

Andromeda nods. “We’ve done all we can,” she says, looking down on the broken, battered shell of her unconscious nephew. “There’s nothing to do now but wait for him to wake.”

“We’ll need to find a room for him,” the Professor sighs.

The other two witches frown. 12 Grimmauld Place isn’t a small house, by any means, but due to the recent arrivals and the house’s permanent residents, the place is stretched to its limits. There’s a moment of silence while the three witches ponder what to do with him, before it is Hermione again who speaks.

“He can room with me,” she says.

Andromeda and McGonagall look at her uncertainly, but she’s insistent. “I have the spare bed—he’s certainly not in any state to be considered a proper threat, look at him.”

McGonagall still looks uneasy. “Hermione…”

“Look,” she says, not even sure why she’s bothering with this, but deep down she feels it’s the right thing to do. She pushes a stray curl behind her ear. “None of the others are going to take him, and he can’t be left down here. Give the two last rooms to the Slytherins, and Malfoy can stay with me. I’ll watch him.”

* * *

(July 9th, 1997)

“You’re going to _what_?”

Harry has been more accepting of Draco in the past few days, particularly after a talk with Remus and Kingsley. Ron, however, furious when she explains to them that Draco will be staying in her room, unwilling to accept that she will continue to take care of their lifelong nemesis.

“It’s bad enough that he has to stay here at all!” Ron shouts; the tips of his ears positively scarlet.

“Ron, he’s defected—”

“So _he_ says—”

Hermione’s eyes narrow. “Do you really think he’s going to just turn us over to You-Know-Who or murder me in my sleep after what he’s been through?”

Ron is temporarily at a loss for words, but he persists. “I don’t trust him, ‘Mione.”

“Well, you’re going to have to eventually,” she says, her tone clipped. “He’s one of us now.”

* * *

(July 13th, 1997)

They move him to Hermione’s room late that night and for the first four days she, Andromeda and Tonks sit with him in shifts. He drifts in and out of consciousness, never staying awake for more than a few seconds, until just after midnight of the seventh day after he was brought to Headquarters. Hermione’s dozed off in the armchair by his bed, until she’s roused by the sound of her name in a raspy, almost unrecognizable—but distinctly alert—voice.

“Granger?”

She’s awake in an instant, waving her wand to liven the flame of the lone candle on the bedside table, flooding both their faces in golden light that brings the fading bruises on his healing face into sharp relief. “Malfoy—oh, thank Merlin, you’re awake.”

“Where am I?” he croaks out, his brow furrowed in an attempt to bring her face into focus.

“Headquarters,” she says. “McGonagall brought you in.”

He nods, as if remembering the circumstances before his arrival with the Order. “I feel like shit,” he rasps, and she chuckles, more from relief than amusement. “How long have I been out?”

“Almost a week,” she answers. “The Portkey from Hogwarts knocked you out pretty efficiently, but there was no other way to move you in that state.”

He nods, and she catches her lower lip between her teeth before finally asking. “Malfoy, what happened to you?”

He frowns, his grey eyes drifting away from her, debating his answer.

“Look—I know we’ve never been anything but enemies to each other. But I’m on your side, alright?”

His eyes meet hers again, unabashed surprise and confusion in their depths. “You are?”

She nods and when she speaks, her voice trembles slightly. “McGonagall, Kingsley and Andromeda—your aunt—they all believe you really couldn’t have gone through with—with killing Dumbledore. They feel you deserve a chance, after what you’ve been through in the past year. And I do too,” she adds cautiously. “You’re welcome to stay and fight alongside us. The Order isn’t just going to kick you out—whoever rescued you even managed to recover your wand, Mad-Eye has it. But you have to tell me what they did to you.”

He mulls over her words once more before he finally answers. “After—after I left Hogwarts… They took me to _him_. To the Dark Lord.”

She nods, encouraging him to continue.

“He was furious, obviously—he said I needed to be punished for my failure. And he—” his voice cracks for a moment, but he keeps at it. “He tortured my mother—the Cruciatus Curse—and made me count the hours and watch. _Sixteen_ ,” he all but whispers. “She was nearly mad by the end of it—couldn’t even scream anymore.”

Her eyes are wide, but she says nothing and he keeps going.

“Then he got Lucius,” he says, and his eyes darken with rage for a second. “And he says _‘you have to do it_ — _your entire family will pay for your son’s failure’_ —and he ordered him to—to—”

His voice breaks again and there’s no mistaking the tears in his eyes this time, or the tears in Hermione’s eyes. His voice is barely a whisper.

“—and he just did it—he killed her.”

“Malfoy…” she stretches her fingers to reach for him, offer comfort somehow, but she retracts her hand at the last second and he seems not to have noticed.

“Then he had me taken to the dungeons,” he says a few seconds later, his voice steadier but unmistakably hollow. “And he ordered me _Crucio-_ ed for the first six hours, but then the Dark Lord decided he wanted me sane, so he ordered that I be beaten—I don’t even know how long it was—”

“Four days,” she says softly. “McGonagall said you were rescued—She wouldn’t tell us who brought you to her though. I don’t suppose you’ll tell us, either.”

He shakes his head. Hermione expected this; whoever rescued Draco risked a great deal to do so, if he or she was a spy, they wouldn’t want their cover blown.

“How bad was I?” he asks after a moment.

“Honestly?”

He nods again and she sighs. “You were—” another sigh “—at first we doubted you’d even make it. Six broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a broken ankle, extensive fractures in both legs and upper arms, both wrists broken, a ruptured spleen and a bruised liver, external bruising and gashes on just about your entire body, a skinned forearm,” she takes a deep breath before continuing to list his injuries, “a cursed scar on your chest—we’ve managed to close it up, but it most likely won’t fade—a heavy concussion, a bit of nerve damage—probably a side-effect of the Cruciatus Curse, you might have trouble moving around for a few days—and anemia after all those days without food and all the bleeding. We healed you with spells and just about every potion we had at our disposal and Kingsley says you’ll make a full recovery; we’ve just been waiting for you to wake up.”

He takes a moment to absorb the gravity of her words. “What does it say?” he asks finally.

Confusion floods her features. “What?”

“The scar,” he clarifies. “What does it say?”

She pauses for a moment before answering. “ _Traitor._ ”

* * *

(February 1st, 2003)

“Are you going to loiter by the door all night? Honestly, Granger, I can hear you breathing from here.”

She blinks, startled out of her reverie by the sound of his voice. “I wasn’t sure you wanted company.”

Draco turns to look at her, shrugs and puts out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Might as well—seeing as we’re the only ones here.”

This, strictly speaking, isn’t true. Andromeda is upstairs, asleep with the children: six year old Teddy Lupin, Bill and Fleur’s five-year-old twin girls, Alicia Spinnet and Fred’s two-year-old son Julian, and George and Angelina’s kids, four-year-old Roxanne and two-year-old Rory. Even in war, children are born and raised. And now they slept, blissfully innocent and unaware as their parents and all but three members of the Order of the Phoenix had left to take their position, preparing to attack a Death Eater base just before dawn.

It’s no surprise to either of them that the other is awake—no one sleeps properly during a war. As the years have passed, insomnia has etched itself into the face of all the Order members in some way or another, and they can all identify it in the other’s faces. Bloodshot eyes sunken in dark shadows that never seem to fade, the occasional tremble of the hands and a pale visage; it’s as much a part of the Order’s battle uniform as the black robes they wear, the wands they carry and the phoenix tattoos they all have branded onto their skin.

“We’re the only ones awake,” she corrects, but still walks over to him, limping and leaning heavily on the cane. She pulls out a chair to sit next to him in front of the fire.

“You sure you should be on your feet, Granger?”

“Quiet,” she half-snaps at him. “If I have to stay in that bloody room any longer I’m going to lose my mind.”

He chuckles lightly under his breath. “You’ve only been out for five days.”

“Way more than was necessary,” she frowns. “It’s not like I’m the first one to have nerve damage in this house,” she adds, gesturing to his wounded arm in a sling.

“You’re the first one to get it from a cut with a cursed blade,” he says. “That, might I add, could’ve very easily killed you. You’re lucky Aunt ‘Dromeda and Kingsley healed you quickly enough that temporary restricted mobility is the only side-effect.”

“It’s still grave enough that I had to be left here,” she sighs. “How are you holding up?”

He smirks at her, that all-too-familiar Malfoy smirk that has lost some of its malice with the years. “With which part?” he asks. “Do you mean the temporary paralysis in my wand arm, or the fact that said paralysis is the reason I got ditched here while everyone else is out fighting?”

“All of the above, I guess.”

“Well, there _is_ a reason we’re both sitting here in the middle of the night. I’m holding up as well as you are, I suppose.”

“I can’t believe they left us here,” she sighs.

“It’s for the best,” he says, resignation in his tone. “Can’t very well allow us to go when you can barely walk and my wand arm’s a deadweight. It’d be suicide.”

She nods. “I know that, I just—I hate feeling helpless.”

He sighs deeply before retrieving another cigarette from the pack of Camel Lights on the table. Just as he’s about to light it, she stops him with a request.

“Can I have one?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You want one?”

She nods.

“What happened to all those lectures about how smoking is a vile habit that’s going to kill me someday?”

“We’re at war, Malfoy,” she answers simply. “If any of us make it only to die of cancer at a ripe, old age, I would consider us lucky.”

He cocks his head in recognition of this fact.

“Besides, aren’t you always telling me that smoking calms your nerves?”

Again he nods, but says nothing as he takes one from the pack and hands it to her, lighting it with his right hand, as his left arm is still hanging uselessly in its sling. He watches her as she takes a long drag and holds it in for a moment before exhaling the smoke through her nose. He smirks and she catches it, shooting him a confused look as he lights his own fag.

“Everyone I’ve ever watched smoke for the first time chokes and coughs on the first drag,” he explains. “Except you. Of course, I don’t know what I expected—I don’t think it’s ever been recorded that Hermione Granger appeared even to be anything but perfect at anything she’s ever tried.”

“How do you know this is my first time smoking?”

He shoots her a knowing look. “Call it intuition,” he says simply.

She smirks then, running a hand through her short hair before she takes another drag of her cigarette.

* * *

(October 30th, 1997)

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she asks, looking Tonks in the eye through the mirror. “I’m sure—I want it gone. It’s a nuisance and it’s unnecessary and I can’t stand looking at it anymore.”

It’s been nearly two months since she got the news that her parents had been murdered in their home on the day they were meant to leave for Australia, after she modified their memories to keep them safe. The grief had hit her like a tsunami hitting the shore, and she’d refused to eat or come out of her and Draco’s room for the first four days, doing nothing but stare blankly at the wall and cry. He manages to coax her out on the fifth day and at first she barely speaks and moves like a phantom through the house; eventually her lethargic motions give way to a more determined Hermione, who refuses to let herself be paralyzed by grief and instead uses it as fuel. The Order is in the process of tracking down the remaining horcruxes, and she hurls herself headfirst into her research.

She watches as Tonks picks up the shears, opening them against the low ponytail she’s wearing, and then she feels the blades close and her head feels oddly light, and she hears the light thump of ten inches of hair hitting the polished floorboards of the elder witch’s room. Tonks looks hesitant to continue but Hermione gives her a small smile and a nod of encouragement.

A half-hour later, she goes down to the drawing room where the teenagers tend to congregate, as none of them returned to Hogwarts that September; most of them have gone to bed, but Ron and Harry are playing Exploding Snap with Dean, Daphne and Lavender, Ginny and Luna are playing with Arnold the Pygmy Puff on the rug and Theo is watching as Blaise and Draco play chess in front of the fire. She clears her throat to draw their attention, and for the first few seconds they just stare at her, wide-eyed.

Gone is the hectic, thick cloud of hair that had been her most defining characteristic all her life, replaced by a pixie cut very similar to Tonks’ fiery pink locks, with the exception that the longer strands at the top of Hermione’s head curl and twist in a chaotic manner that closely resembles Harry’s messy hair.

“How does it look?” she asks, nervously nibbling on her lower lip.

“It’s certainly different,” says Ginny.

“You look like Harry,” Luna adds, cocking her head.

“I think it suits you,” Lavender offers her a small smile, which Hermione reciprocates after a moment.

“You look good.”

Almost every head in the room turns to look at Draco, and he immediately attempts to amend his statement when Harry and Ron in particular send him suspicious glares. “I mean—it’s certainly better than that wild mane you’ve sported forever.”

“Er—” she almost blushes, uncertain as to how to accept the compliment. “Thank you.”

Tonks sends her cousin a knowing smirk from beside Hermione. “Well,” she says to the younger witch. “I think you look lovely. Doesn’t she?”

The others nod in enthusiastic agreement, even Blaise and Theo nod subtly.

Harry grins at her. “Luna’s right,” he says. “People will really think we’re siblings now.”

“You look great,” Ron says, smiling at her from across the room. “I’ll admit—it’ll take some getting used to, but it’s certainly more convenient, isn’t it?”

“I’ll say,” Tonks chuckles, running a hand through her own, short pink hair.

* * *

(February 1st, 2003)

Tonks, along with Lavender Brown and Charlie Weasley, has been missing for over a year, and not long after Hermione shed her long tresses, all the female fighters in the Order had followed suit. Not wanting to dwell on thoughts of her absent friend, she focuses on the cigarette in her hands, tapping out the ash into the crystal ashtray.

“What were you thinking about just now, when you came in here?” he asks.

She blows out a thin stream of smoke through pursed lips before answering. “I was remembering the day McGonagall brought you in.”

He frowns and looks at the flames, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Bet I looked like shit,” he comments, licking his teeth.

She nods. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone more injured in all the years since,” she says softly and he looks at her. “I was so scared you wouldn’t make it.”

“You hated me,” he says. “I would expect it made your day to see me in such a state.”

Her brow furrows and she meets his eye. “I never hated you, Draco,” she says. “Sure, there was a time I thought you were a bigot and an all-around prick—but I never wished for anything remotely close to what you went through to actually happen to you.”

He nods, realizing just then that they’ve never actually discussed this, so he asks the question. “Why did you help heal me?”

She shakes her head. “The sight of you when McGonagall brought you in—” she takes a drag. “It was terrifying, Draco. It shattered me. You were just a boy, and the idea that someone had actually done that to you—”

“Not _someone_ ,” he interrupts. “My father did that to me.”

She blinks. “You never told us that.”

He shrugs, exhaling smoke. “I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

She doesn’t know what to reply to that, so she answers his previous question. “I helped heal you because it was the right thing to do.”

“Is that why you also let me stay in your room?”

She’s taken aback by his words, and in the light of the fire he can see that her cheeks have darkened with a light blush. “Someone needed to watch you,” she says. “We didn’t have as many rooms back then—and I had the spare bed.”

He nods in understanding. “Bet Potter and Weasley loved that.”

She smirks. “They thought I’d gone mad when I suggested it—we had a huge row about it. They didn’t trust you, even though it was clear you weren’t going to murder me in my sleep and run back to the Death Eaters, not in that state or those circumstances. Ron was so angry, though,” she smiles sadly.

He’s unsure of what to say. Ron Weasley had been killed in a raid three years prior, along with Seamus and Astoria, when a curse from Dolohov blew up their hideout as they spied on a place where they suspected one of the final Horcruxes had been hidden. He and Hermione had never been romantically involved, but the wizard’s death had still affected her deeply, and now a sort of cavernous sadness had flooded her eyes.

“But you let me stay after I was better,” he remarks, mostly to distract her from the pull of grief. “We still share a room to this day, in fact. Why?”

She shrugs, putting out her finished cigarette in the ashtray. “After the first few weeks of obvious arguing and tension, I started to enjoy your company. Merlin knows none of the others our age had read as much as you had—I enjoyed our discussions, and I enjoyed giving you books to read while you recovered.”

He nods, remembering the routine they’d had while he was still recovering his strength and getting accustomed to his situation in Grimmauld Place.

* * *

(September 19th, 1998)

“You should come with me,” she says, resting her shoe on the trunk at the foot of her bed as she ties the laces. The warm, mid-morning sun is pouring in through the window and it’s an off day, with none of them needed for urgent tasks, so they can just relax.

He frowns at her from his bed. “Where?”

“Downstairs, of course,” she tells him. “With the others. I mean, I know Blaise and Theo are out with Andromeda getting potions supplies, but you could still come down.”

“Why would I want to do that, Granger?”

She quirks an eyebrow. “You’d rather stay here all day and be bored out of your skull?”

He shrugs. “If the alternative is going downstairs to play Gobstones with Potty and Weaselbee—or Merlin forbid, _talk_ to them—yes. I’d rather stay here.”

She frowns at the nicknames. “Really, Draco, you’ve been here over a year—you three are going to have to learn to get along _someday_.”

“Not really. I mean sure, we’ll have to learn to not be at each other’s throats or not wish ill upon one another, but I wouldn’t wait with baited breath for the death-trap twins and I to genuinely get along.”

She sits down at the foot of his bed. “What do you do for fun?”

He’s startled at the question. “What?”

“Fun, Malfoy,” she smirks. “You _are_ familiar with the concept, no?”

He licks his teeth, half-rolling his eyes at her. “Yes, Granger, I know what _fun_ is.”

“Well?”

“I play Quidditch, usually, or chess or something else, or I read.”

She thinks about it for a few seconds, biting her lower lip. Finally, she stands and walks over to the shelves that house most of her books, taking one out before walking back. “Well, you can’t play Quidditch, and I’m arguably the world’s worst Wizard’s Chess player—so this will have to do.”

She hands him the book and he examines the cover. “ _The Divine Comedy_ ,” he reads. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“You poor, illiterate boy,” she mutters with a chuckle. “That’s because it’s muggle—and before you start, I’d give Dante a shot. You might genuinely like this one.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s a poem,” she says. “An allegory, really—it describes Dante’s journey through Hell, Purgatory and Paradise— _inferno, purgatorio e paradiso_.”

He ponders it for a moment. “Alright.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading for the door before his voice stops her.

“Granger.”

She turns. “Yes?”

“Happy birthday.”

And she smiles very briefly before leaving the room.

* * *

(February 1st, 2003)

He takes one last drag before putting out his cigarette, blowing out the smoke slowly as he considers his words. “I never thanked you.”

She looks confused. “For what? Healing you?”

He shakes his head. “Salazar knows it wasn’t an easy transition for me, joining the Order, losing my mother, my family—going against everything I was ever taught to do what I felt was the right thing—and having to learn to get on with you lot, to trust you,” he pauses, looking down at a stray thread on the hem of his charcoal grey jumper. “You never made it hard for me… Never judged, even though it would’ve been perfectly justified if you had, and never pitied me for losing everything.”

“I didn’t think it was my place to judge,” she says simply. “You’d already lost so much—I just thought you could use...” she hesitates before finding a safe word she’s sure won’t offend him. “An ally.”

“Ally?” he echoes, now looking her in the eye. “Blimey, Granger. After six years that’s all you think I am? An ally?”

Her lips twitch into a half-smile. “I was going to say friend first, but I thought you might be offended.”

He smirks at her. “You know, for such a gifted witch, you’re a bit thick sometimes.”

Her lips part in surprise. “What?”

“Nothing,” he waves her off, once again avoiding her gaze to look at the fire. For a few moments, neither speaks until his voice breaks the silence.

“I can’t stop thinking about them. The others.”

She nods, and then begins to list their names in a sort of ritual they’ve grown into over the years, usually done in the confines of their room just before they’re to go into battle. Not exactly a prayer, but a way to keep them all in their thoughts. “Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Percy Weasley…”

He picks up where she left off. “Bill Weasley, Molly Weasley, Arthur Weasley…”

“Fleur Delacour, Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom, Dean Thomas, Lee Jordan…”

“Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Millicent Bulstrode, Daphne Greengrass…”

“Cho Chang, Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, Susan Bones…”

“Colin Creevie, Dennis Creevie, Padma Patil, Parvati Patil…”

“Ernie MacMillan, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, Anthony Goldstein, Terry Boot…”

“Augusta Longbottom, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minerva McGonagall, Filius Flitwick…”

“Xenophilius Lovegood, Rubeus Hagrid, Alastor Moody, Ted Tonks, Remus Lupin, Hestia Jones…”

And then, without warning, he begins to list the names of the people they’ve lost over the course of the War in a hollow voice. The list is almost miraculously short.

“Ron Weasley, Seamus Finnegan, Astoria Greengrass…”

Hermione blinks and the words leave her mouth before she can stop them. “Nymphadora Tonks, Lavender Brown, Charlie Weasley…”

“Oliver Wood, Katie Bell, Michael Corner, Severus Snape…”

“Pomona Sprout, Dedalus Diggle, Elphias Doge.”

* * *

(February 4th, 2000)

Her body is still shaking, even though the intensity of her sobs has subdued in the past hour, but her attempts to muffle her crying into the pillow are futile. Over and over, the words play in her head and the reactions of the others, Molly, Ginny and Daphne in particular, their tormented cries and their grief as Mad-Eye informed them all that Astoria, Seamus and Ron had been killed when a Blasting Curse tore apart their hideout.

She thinks of Seamus, of his Irish burr and his uncanny ability to make everything explode without meaning to; of Astoria being the first of the girls to cut her long, lovely dark hair to model Hermione’s, her sweet disposition and how she was almost constantly humming a tune under her breath. She thinks of Ron, of his merry blue eyes and his clumsiness, and a fresh wave of grief hits her, the ache in her chest almost unbearable. She doesn’t notice when the door opens and Draco comes in, his face red from scrubbing away stubborn tears. She’s so absorbed by the pain and the tears that she doesn’t feel him sit down beside her until he’s pulling her into his arms.

“Granger,” he says softly.

She grips him tightly and cries into his chest and he absorbs it all; her tears, her pain and her grief, stroking her back and murmuring soothing words until, after what seems like an eternity, her crying calms enough that she’s capable of speaking.

“How are the others?”

The corners of Draco’s mouth turn upwards an infinitesimal amount at her concern over the rest of the grieving Order members.

“Molly is with Arthur,” he says. “Bill, Charlie and Percy are with them. The twins’ve locked themselves in their room, and Ginny’s with Potter—Andromeda gave them both a Calming Draught a while back. Luna, Longbottom and Dean are trying to get word out to Seamus’ family.”

“And Daphne?”

She was deeply concerned for the former Slytherin; the Weasleys, had each other, after all, but Astoria was all the family Daphne had, and the two had been quite close. Astoria had told Hermione once that people always thought she and Daphne were twins.

“She’s holding up as well as she can, I suppose,” Draco murmurs. “Fleur and Tonks are with her.”

“And you?” she asks.

He shrugs. “We weren’t exactly close, Astoria and I. At one point, Lucius and her father wanted to bind us in a marriage contract, though.”

“He did?”

He nods. “Her mother didn’t want to, though. Nor did mine. They didn’t want to force us into an arranged marriage.”

She nods in understanding. “I can’t believe they’re gone,” she whispers, though her eyes are dry and sore; she’s all cried out for the time being.

“Me neither,” he admits, and they stay that way, curled into each other for warmth and comfort, until they’ve both fallen asleep.

* * *

(February 1st, 2003)

They sit in silence for a few minutes, and when she speaks, her voice is much steadier and controlled. “They’ll be alright. I know they will.”

He nods.

“I’m going to make some tea,” she says. “Would you like some?”

He nods again. “Yes, that would be great. Thank you.”

She waves him off, gingerly getting to her feet and walking over to the stove to put the kettle on, filling it with water from her wand. Within minutes, she’s putting a steaming mug of tea into his good hand. The glass is warm, not enough that it’s uncomfortable, but enough to appear hot against his cold fingers.

“Your hands are freezing,” she comments as she drops back into her seat.

He shrugs, taking a sip of his tea before speaking. “I keep thinking that he’ll be there.”

When she meets his eye, she realizes he’s talking about Lucius. “Mad-Eye said it would be a possibility. The base—Nott Manor—it’s supposed to be where the Ten have been stationed since Malfoy Manor was destroyed.”

“I know,” he nods. The Ten, the highest ranking Death Eaters in Voldemort’s army; Bellatrix, the Lestrange brothers, Macnair, Avery, Crabbe, Goyle and Theo’s fathers, Wormtail and Lucius. Probably the most dangerous group of Voldemort’s followers, and the death of any of them would be a great victory for the Order in the ongoing war.

“Theo and I talked before they left,” he says, and she looks up from the flames. Out of everyone else in the Order besides her, Draco is closest to Theo and Blaise, having known both of them since infancy; the three of them had been forced to take the Mark at the same time.

“Oh?”

He nods. “I asked him if he was uneasy, going back to his childhood home facing the possibility of killing his father. You have to understand—Theo’s father is a madman. Always has been. When we were kids... He’d get drunk every so often and go into a rage, take it out on Theo and beat the everlasting shit out of him. Put him in St. Mungo’s a few times, always chalking it up to some freak accident, but we knew better.”

Her eyes are wide. Out of the three former Slytherin men, Theo is the most easy-going, snarky and laid-back, in contrast to Blaise’s calm, quiet nature and Draco’s scathing, sharp wit. She’s never even considered the possibility of what he went through. “Merlin.”

He nods. “He said that if the moment came, he wouldn’t feel a bit of remorse—not after all his father did to him when he was a kid, and not after he opted him up for the Mark like volunteering a pig for slaughter. I can’t blame him—I feel the same way.”

“I don’t blame you, either,” is what she says.

“I accepted the possibility that I might kill Lucius early on,” he confesses. “I don’t think I’d feel a bit of remorse, either. If nothing else, he killed my mother. He just—” a sharp intake of breath before he continues “—he followed orders like a mindless puppet. When his master wanted me, he brought me forward without hesitation, never mind that I was just a kid and scared out of my fucking mind. When that _thing_ ordered him to kill my mother after torturing her to the point where she was almost insane, he did it without a moment’s hesitation—without sparing his wife a second thought. I accepted the fact that I most likely will bring about his death when I was still locked up in the dungeons at the Manor,” he says, his voice calm. “In fact, I embraced it.”

* * *

(July 3rd, 1997)

He’s dizzy and every single cell in his body is screaming in protest. The pain was so encompassing, so consuming, that he barely noticed how exhausted he was from hunger and holding this position so long; on his knees, his wrists shackled to a chain that hangs from the ceiling and his ankles chained to the wall. He’s fairly sure he’s got a fair amount of broken bones, but the searing pain is evenly distributed on what feels like his entire body, so he can’t be sure of what’s broken and what isn’t. The stench of blood is suffocating; it drips from his nose, his temple, the stretch of missing skin on his forearm where his Dark Mark used to be, the cuts carved deep into his chest, and just about everywhere else, pooling onto the smooth stone floor of the dungeon where he’s being held.

He’s had a lot of time to think in the time he’s been here. Has it been hours? Days? He can’t be sure, as the dungeons have no windows, and he’s been disoriented since his last encounter with the Cruciatus Curse; it feels like he’s been here for weeks. He regrets it all—all his mindless attempts to kill Dumbledore, his agreeing to go along with Voldemort’s wishes in the first place. The events of the last few days have been enough to make him realize how useless, how silly it all is; the prejudice, the hate, the killing. His own blood, red and smelling of rust and salt at his feet and on his skin, is a reminder of that.

 _Pureblood_ , he thinks, _it’s supposedly pure_ — _but blood looks the same coming from everyone._

And with that thought, come others, still filling his mind with more regret in the time that passes between one round of beating and the next.

Granger.

The witch had been the blight of his existence since childhood. Unimaginably bright and witty, undeniably strong and able to hold her own; she was able to match his slurs and venom with scathing comments and calculated blows to his ego. Had he really hated her all this time simply because of her _blood_?

It all seems so asinine now, when he’s lost so much and been subjected to so much more.

 _Smack_.

The spell hits the middle of his back, making him wince and arch painfully and announcing the arrival of his tormentor once more, but he refuses to make any noise.

“No more screams, boy?” Lucius taunts as he circles him, his voice full of spite. “No more tears?”

He manages to open his swollen and bruised eyes to glare at the man he had once referred to as Father, who he once sought to emulate in every way, for whom he only feels anger and resentment now—and when he thinks of Narcissa, dead and broken on the drawing room floor, he feels it: hate.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Lucius spits out his words. “Are you so daft and childish not to see that this is simply the consequence of your actions?”

Draco says nothing, but continues to glare at the man who sired him.

“You’re a disgrace,” the elder wizard goes on, gripping Draco’s chin roughly in his gloved hand. “You’re weak, and pathetic. You can’t even speak.”

Draco grits his teeth. “I’m going to get out of here,” he whispers.

Lucius sneers. “I think not. Wandless, beaten and broken—you’re going to die in this dungeon.”

“I’m going to get out of here,” he repeats. “And one day, I’m going to kill you.”

Lucius face contorts with rage. A moment later, his fist collides with Draco’s face and he feels the darkness engulf him once more as he blacks out.

* * *

(February 1st, 2003)

“I’m not going to waste my breath and say that harboring those kinds of thoughts is unhealthy,” she says to him in an equally calm tone. “I’m not going to judge you for resenting him the way you do.”

“Thank you,” he replies, after a few moments. “I thought you of all people would condemn my thirst for vengeance.”

She shrugs. “The past six years have put things in perspective for me. Losing my friends, my parents, seeing others get hurt... I understand your thirst for vengeance, Draco. I share it.”

He looks at her. She’s different from the girl she was when they were kids, still at Hogwarts—she’s different from the girl she was when he first joined the Order. She’s taller, slim and strong, with a few scars on her arms and shoulders, and a fresh one running down the length of her left thigh from that poisoned cut; her hair is short and still styled in that way that makes her look like Potter, to the point where people might assume they’re siblings if they didn’t know better.

She looks at him. He’s also different from the boy who taunted her in their youth—and so very different from the broken, battered shell he was when he’d first arrived at the house. He’s strong, all sharp lines and lean muscles; his arms are marked by veins and a few scars he’s acquired over the years. His hair is no longer slicked back, the way he wore it when they were at Hogwarts, but tousled and and cut similarly to hers; his sharp jaw is covered with the faintest bit of stubble, and his cloudy grey eyes are always alert, sharp and, oddly enough, understanding.

In battle, she is a wildcat and he is a wolf.

She’s thunder; she’s speed and skill and sheer ferocity, crackling with its intensity. He’s lightning; smooth movements and fast reflexes, like he’s almost made of smoke itself. Neither of them can properly remember when they started battling like a team, but it’s worked for them in the years since; not even the best of Voldemort’s army have stood a chance against the pair of them.

But someone who’d only seen them in action would never guess that when they’re alone—particularly now, when they’ve been left behind while the others march into combat—they move around each other with the softness and tenderness of feathers and silk. Almost unbelievably, years of enmity gave way to a friendship where each is the other’s best support and source of comfort amid the circumstances they live in. And Draco might be reluctant to say it aloud, but he knows it all the same—she’s all he’s got, in the end.

Her features have been hardened slightly by loss and adversity, but there are parts of her that are the same as ever: the spattering of freckles across her nose, the pout of her full lips, the way her eyebrows furrow together when she’s focused and, most notably, her eyes.

No amount of cynicism, death or bloodshed could change Hermione Granger’s eyes.

They’re large and rounded, framed by long, thick lashes and in their chocolate depths, he can still find it. After all, it had been she who suggested the names for two of the first babies born in Grimmauld Place; Bill and Fleur’s twins, Hope and Faith Weasley.

Hope and faith.

Hope that one day, the gruesome, sickening present will be nothing more than a bad memory.

Faith that they can actually get the job done, that they can come out victorious.

“How do you do it, Granger?”

She looks at him then and her brow furrows. “Do what?”

His lips twitch before he finds the words. “Keep going.”

She ponders his question for a moment and when she looks at him again her face lacks the worried and harsh expression she’s worn since she came into the kitchen. “Remember when the twins were born?”

He nods.

“Everyone was so worried when Fleur found out she was pregnant—things had gotten so much worse between then and when Teddy had been born.”

He smirks. “I remember Molly calling Bill an ‘irresponsible, deranged brat’.”

The corners of her mouth turn upwards and for once, she lets them. “Of course, it’s obvious what everyone was so concerned about—whether or not it was wise or even sane to bring children into this world with a war going on.”

Draco nods and she looks at him. “But you saw how everyone was when they were born; with all the children, really. Teddy, Hope, Faith, Roxanne, Rory, Julian… They’ve brought life and joy and laughter back into this house… I think the children serve as a reminder of what the war has taken from us, from the adults. They remind us what innocence looks like. I keep going for them,” she says. “For them and for the future they represent.”

When she meets his eye again, he sees it once more.

And for now, that faint glimmer in her eyes is what keeps him going.

The clock strikes four in the morning, and the two look at it, certain that at this moment the others will be infiltrating Nott Manor.

“They’re going to be fine,” he says, and he reaches over with his good arm to take her hand in the gap between their chairs.

“I know they will,” she replies, lacing her fingers through his and squeezing tightly as they both sip their tea.


End file.
